Memories
by Azkainer
Summary: Clarke relives the past and sees the colours that come with it. [[A multi-chapter story exploring the other side]].
1. NOT EVERYONE, NOT YOU

_In peace, may you leave this shore._

 _In love, may you find the next._

 _Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey on the ground._

 _May we meet again. —_

* * *

Not her.

Never her.

Somehow it was never going to be her. So resilient, strong. Kind too. So much kindness in the face of warring atrocities. And though she knew it was weakness, the teachings did not make her immune to her charm. She had, more than once, scoffed at the notion. Unbelievable. She was not weak, after all.

And yet here, in the harsh light of her tent, she was stunned; floored, by the absolute burst of colour and sound and _feeling_ that this person bought. The way that even the walls, the ground, seemed to shriek and move and want to touch whenever she was here. So used to grey. Years of grey. All was grey; except for her. Eyes of the ocean and a gentle quirk of the flesh pink mouth. A tongue coming out to wet at lips. Hair the colour of straw on mid-summers morning. The whole of her life, littered with grey; Titus. Anya. Gustaf. Her mother – and this girl. This Commander of the Sky. She did not match. Costia, dead now, had been similar. Colour. Life. But not like this. No. Clarke did not fit the grey.

Lexa approached. Shifted. Nervous. A twist of her stomach as it burst into a thousand fluttering wings. Too much to take in all at once; and yet not ever enough. Feet moving without consent. Forwards. Backwards. Wherever Clarke was, she followed. Tentative, shaking hands busied with tightening armour. Gauntlets.

Indignant Clarke, angry. A voice inside chided, a shaking finger at the choices she had made. She had sent her solider to kill Octavia; wrong, the voice told her. An inward scoff. She was not willing to risk this all, this war, on _feelings_. The voice chided at her again.

"Yes, you say having feelings makes me weak, but _you're_ weak for hiding from them. I might be a hypocrite, Lexa, but you're a liar."

A tightening of her stomach. The wings of butterflies settling; a roiling, angry sea taking its place. She felt sick. Each name of those she had loved, another knife in her gut. Pressed against the wooden table, hands grabbing for purchase. Terrified. Angry. A hissed order, ignored.

The colour flowed from every inch of Clarke. Every pore, every strand of hair; a hundred thousand shades of everything Lexa admired. Fell weak for. Another stab. Her face mere inches away. The numbers spat, the furrowed brow.

"Not everyone. Not you," a surprise her voice worked. The ocean in her stomach settling to a gentle lap against the shore. Waiting, watching. It was no more than mere seconds of wait, but it may as well had been an eternity; for all the colours were concerned.

The way their breaths mingled in the air. A cacophony of smoke to water. All it would take was a yes. A confirmation. A kiss in the hard light pushing through a tear in the fabric. A side of Clarke's face lost in it. A future reflected in her eyes; shattered with a shaken breath and denial.

Lexa watched her go. Back straight, a hand grasping at the tables wood before curling in on itself. Eyes cast skyward. A shaky breath. In. Out. Eyes closed to the grey collapsing in around her. A tongue wetting her lips and bringing them in. The voices in her head, chiding once again. A mistake. This was a mistake.

Shaky legs collapsed under her; forcing a seat upon the cold ground. Knees twisted under her. A hand splayed out for balance, security. The other reaching to scratch at her the base of her neck; feeling the raised surface of the Holy Mark. She felt sick again. The roiling currents crashing against her shore without pause.

Love is weakness. Love is weakness. Love is weakness. Love is- colour.

Love is the colour of the ocean reflected in the eyes of Clarke.

Love was weakness and for the first time in her grey life, since the muted colours of Costia, she allowed them to flow back to her; browns and yellows and reds touching at her fingers from the floor below.

A start.

* * *

Air surged back into Clarke's lungs. Pushed back from being hunched over the computer chip below. Its tendrils unwrapping from her fingers, gently moving across her skin before withdrawing into its shell. It pulsated with light; like the slow thrum of a beating heart. Doing so only when Clarke was nearby. Feeling her presence and revelling in it like a lover beneath lips.

Gently, slowly, as if moving any faster would break her, or it, Clarke moved her fingers along the edges of the small device. Its tendrils did not move for her. The pulsating quickened a moment. Nobody understood why Clarke had demanded to keep it. Defunct now. Useless. The A.I within having served its purpose. A leader chosen by vote – not by blood.

Clarke covered the symbol with her hands, feeling the tendrils stroke at her palms. A shaky breath let out as she closed her eyes again. The thin strings tying themselves around her fingers. A smile graced her features as she allowed herself to be consumed again, the memories pouring at her from within.


	2. MEMORY CORE

_Death is a brief separation._

 _A temporary pain._

 _Grieve not my dear,_

 _The sun will shine again._ _—_

* * *

Clarke's fingers hovered, gingerly, over the small computer chip, 'the spirit of the Commander'. Tired eyes lingered on the curves, the jagged edges, the way the light seemed to be drawn in and pulsated out. A life of its own, tendrils reaching for her fingers; touching and curling before tentatively withdrawing.

If she closed her eyes, and she so often did, she could hear Lexa's voice whenever it touched at her; could feel a gentle kiss be pressed against her ear, eyelashes fluttering against her skin. It was alive, after all; the last bastion and memory of the one Clarke had dared love.

She was grateful for this room. Dark and hidden away in the tallest reaches of the building. Forgotten about. Dusty and cluttered and dry. Warm. No windows. Only a broken door. Candles littering the floor, their orange glow casting flickering shadows along the clutter. A place she could retreat to, to be alone. To think. To breathe.

A shudder as she settled in for the long night. A blanket woven around her legs. Pillow propped behind her. A breath left to fall from trembling lips as she reached out to touch at the chip again, tendrils reaching back. A precious thing. No bigger than her thumb. A smile crept across her face, sad and happy and so full of love, all wrapped in one. Unwilling eyes drawn to her arm; skin marred by the thick black ink beneath. A homage. Her. Sensitive to touch. Raised just slightly. A reminder.

The tent. The war. That time on the mountain. Their first meeting as rightful Heda's. It was all clear now; albeit hazy. Like wiping at a mirror of memories fogged over by the steam of time. Clarke was privy to it all, watching from Lexa's eyes; the past, the present. Was able to watch herself fumble and stutter and stare – stare so hard she could feel herself shrink back. Inwardly. Lexa did not back down.

And the _affection_. The way it poured from Lexa. Demanding to be seen. Felt. The way her greys were being influenced by Clarke's own colours; mingling on the floor and in the air and cascading over them like visceral liquid; sticking to every part and pore and strand of hair. Clarke was impressed by this, not having seen it before. She wondered whether it was a trick of the eyes, played on her by the memory chip. A metaphor. Her colours were always so bright, after all. Vivid greens and blues and reds, twisting and turning and reaching out toward the grey; an innate need to _change._ Always a beacon of hope in Lexa's memories. A smile crossed her mouth.

Lexa, at first, had not struck her as anything more than a stoic, unfeeling individual. And certainly not romantic. And yet here, thrumming in the orange glow of the candlelight, were Leax's most precious of memories. Brought forward by an intelligence far greater than her own – knowing she needed them, and giving them freely. She often mulled over that; these were not rightfully hers to see. And yet the _thing_ born and bred inside the chip had sought her out, barring anyone but her entry. Beaming in her presence, reaching out to grab and touch and feel. Pouring memories at her faster than she could anticipate, or want. Eager to show her all. Make her understand. It was truly something, and if Clarke were being honest, the intensity of it made her blush.

Oh so softly, she tiredly reached out to touch at the chip again. Feeling it's warmth beneath her fingers. Letting it touch back, but not enough to draw her in. She wondered where Lexa was, amidst all these memories. Knowing full well that a copy of her, a figment, was still very much _alive_ and sentient within. Was this all just Lexa's doing? Pushing her control over the A.I to show Clarke what she wanted, needed, to see?

She was meant to be leading her people. The coalition was finally in place. A proper one. A _voted_ one. Free from the effects of the City. Her and Bellamy; whom had come round, fighting with them, losing an arm, and quite nearly an eye. She was meant to be down there, and yet. If they could see her now. Locked away. Hunched over the thing they had all been freed from. Taking pleasure and comfort from it that she could find nowhere else.

Nothing would ever quite be like Lexa; she had realized, years after the fact. Her scent. Her taste. The way she reserved a smile that was only for Clarke; a private one. Seen only a scant few times before it was rudely, painfully ripped away. The way her green eyes, in their downtime, had slowly trawled over Clarke; taking in every inch of her. The way Lexa slept, a book usually cradled in her hands from the night previous. And the colours. Oh, the colours. Every shade and tint and hue that Clarke could ever dream of; each one a different feeling, a different smell, taste, touch, texture, as the last. Green of pines and endless forest, and the _taste_ of calm. Blues that roiled as the deepest of oceans did; anger, jealousy, fear. Magnificent colours and Clarke was only just scratching the surface of them; the memory chip the only connection and the only source of answer.

And so, she let her fingers splay out against the fibres again; feeling them curl around her fingers delicately. A warmth blossomed in her chest the same moment the burst of light emitted in her eyes. The door to within.


End file.
